


The sick sense of humiliation

by basaltgrrl



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: F/M, Genderswap, Non Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PC Jean Hunt is new to the force.  She learns that men have expectations and needs and ways of getting what they want.</p><p>For the lifein1973 whump!bingo challenge, prompt: humiliation</p>
            </blockquote>





	The sick sense of humiliation

The only redeeming quality about the entire encounter was that it involved only the two of them. Jean was oddly, embarassingly grateful for the fact that Superintendent Thomas had called her into his office after hours, after all the other officers and constables had left for the day, and the only personnel on site were on the lower level at the charge desk and in the lock-up. The cleaning staff had finished as well; she had noted that herself as she walked briskly down the dimly lit hall to his half-open door, the gold bar of light spilling across the floor like a beacon.

She had been confident. Certain that this meant a promotion, being assigned to the Findlay case, something positive and a step in the right direction after all her efforts, her long hours of work and trying so hard to measure up in a man's world, matching the boys pint for pint and besting not a few of them in arm wrestling and punch-ups.

Now, twenty minutes later, on her knees on the gritty floor, the Super's hand resting lightly but insistently on the back of her head, she knows better. She's got his cock in her mouth, working it steadily, closing her eyes so that she doesn't have to stare at the zip of his trousers, the thatch of greying hair inches from her own nose. She hasn't once looked up. He hasn't said a word since he unbuckled his belt and shoved the material aside, gestured briskly and growled, "Get on with it." There's only his harsh, irregular breathing, the quivering tension in his thighs, and the pressure of his fingers against her skull.

She doesn't want to replay the conversation but she can't stop herself.

"Jean Hunt." He looked up from the papers on his desk and smiled, briefly and without humor.

"Yes sir," she answered, standing to attention. She felt good about herself, about her day at work and her confident, strong posture which she had practiced at home in a mirror. She had known from day one that she'd have to impress the blokes at work in order to make her way, in order to become what she wanted to be. What that was--well, she hadn't quite thought it in so many words, but she wanted to command. Eventually. One way or another. They wouldn't take her in national service but she could join the police force, and if she did a good job... It was a dream, she knew that, but she wanted to be in charge with a burning desire that maybe had something to do with the long years of watching her mam fade away powerless and subjected to her father's brutal beatings. And maybe it had something to do with Jean's own experiences, too, the good as well as the bad; the way she had always been good at sport, playing footie with the boys, the feel of being on a team, being part of something bigger than herself.

"You've done very well this week," Thomas said, idly fondling the pen resting on top of his paperwork. There was something mesmerizing about the repetitive movements of his fingers; she found herself staring.

"Thank you, sir," she answered after a moment.

"I think you might go far in the force. You have what it takes, Hunt. You're sharp, clever, and you've got a pair of legs on you."

"Sir?" She wondered if he was referring to the chase after the jewelry store robbery, two days ago. She and PC Hobbes had run the fellow down, and she had nabbed him first. Hobbes had got a pat on the back and she had just been in the background, but maybe someone had noticed.

"I said, you've got nice legs." His voice dropped, went husky.

"Thank you, sir."

"Walk around a bit for me, there's a good girl."

"Sir?"

"Turn around, walk to the door and then back again."

She did it, still confused, wondering why he wanted to see her move, like livestock for sale. Heat started to rise to her cheeks when she was once again standing in front of his desk. She clasped her hands behind her back to keep them from shaking. This--what was this?

She'd been staring at the edge of his desk, where the light met the shadow. When she raised her eyes to his face she realized he'd been staring at her chest, that her posture had thrust her breasts out toward him. She opened her mouth, angry and embarassed. And then shut it. This man was not only her superior, he was her boss' boss. The big man.

"You want to be more than a traffic warden," he said softly.

She nodded, uncertain of her voice.

"I can make that happen for you. But you have to do something in return, eh, Jean?"

She nodded again. There was a thudding noise in her ears. The moment seemed to stretch into eternity.

"You know what I mean, don't you?"

She stared at the edge of his desk, the wood grain, the varnish worn through. She stared at the blotter, at the pieces of paper. She bent her neck, stiffly. She couldn't bring herself to look up into his face. Please let me disappear, she thought. Let me melt through the floor, let me shrink into nothingness. It had never worked with her father, though. It wasn't working now.

"Say it."

"I know what you mean."

He chuckled, a soft and almost affectionate sound. She closed her eyes for a moment. "I'd like you to ask me, Jean. I'd like you to ask for it. I know you want to, because you've got ambition. Saw it in your face the day you started here. This is just a step along the road you want to take."

She swallowed, her stomach giving an unpleasant lurch. "I--"

"It's not hard, just... say the words."

"I want to... suck you off, sir." She hated the words the moment she said them, hated him, hated herself and the way her face felt hot as a stove.

Superintendent Thomas leaned back in his chair. The fabric of his jacket rustled as he spread it open, worked his belt buckle and flies. She felt her face burning. Soft noises as he shifted in place, the sound of a zipper.

"Come now," he said, and there was a hint of impatience in his tone. "You've been around the block. This can't be your first time and it won't be your last. Just do what I want and life will be easy. WPC Hunt. You could go places, girl like you. But first place you're going..."

She looked up at him. He made a peremptory, expectant gesture toward his own crotch and her eyes followed, involuntarily, coming to rest on his erect penis which jutted oddly out of place against the fabric of his clothes. He'd pulled it out. She was supposed to get down there, to pleasure him. How the bloody hell was this supposed to go on? She couldn't leave--she wouldn't have a job in the morning if she walked out of here.

She rubbed her sweaty palms on the black worsted of her skirt and took two unsteady steps forward. He turned in his chair, facing her. And then, because she just couldn't look at his member anymore, she looked into his face. Amused. Quizzical. Eyebrow arched. His dark hair beginning to thin and grey, that thin moustache quirked asymetrically along the thin line of his lips, and his eyes. Cold and grey and knowing, holding hers for what seemed like a hundred heartbeats.

"Get on with it."

She didn't remember getting to her knees. But it was just a few minutes ago. She ought to remember that, right? Her jaw ached. Her eyes were tearing up. She had one hand on him, trying to help it along, and one braced on her thigh. She was losing feeling in her knees, her arms, her whole self. How long could this go on? Not much longer, if she was lucky. His legs were quivering, his hand pressing more insistently, and then his hips rocked forward and he groaned, and she gagged, fighting to pull away.

He didn't let her until he had spent himself.

She spat into his bin once he finally let her go, rubbing her hands on her skirt, feeling used and wronged and frustrated and wound-up. She wanted to kick something, to punch a wall. She felt achy. The muscles of her neck and back were like hot bars of iron. She had her hand on the doorknob before he had finished doing himself up, but at his throat clearing noise she stopped and waited with a sick sense of inevitability. Of course there would be words; praise or threats, expectations.

"Good evening, WPC Hunt."

She made a choking noise and fled.

***

Whisky down the pub. She'd never had any before; it was very different to beer, brought tears to her eyes and made her cough.

"Sure that's what you want, lady?" The bartender was concerned but she waved him off. The bite cleared the taste from her mouth, the bitter salt that she didn't think she'd ever manage to erase from her memory, all the more bitter because she knew she'd be tasting it again.

Oh yes. Men like Superintendent Thomas didn't do such things as a one-off.

Another whisky. Several plod she knew from the office showed up, but they seemed to know to keep their distance from her. She hoped they could sense her hostility, how much she resented them for being men. Oh, they were just boys, laughing and taking the piss, playing darts and spilling their pints. They didn't know yet how the world worked. How hard it was to see the world the same way she had before, just a few hours earlier! It wasn't as though no one had ever betrayed her trust before, but this was something different. Something that took away her power, that made her less than these boys... not as though she had been considered their equal before. She ground her teeth together and tossed back the last burning drops in her glass.

She decided two was enough. She was in no mood for darts or laughter. Her knees felt wobbly when she slid off the chair, but she straightened her spine and made for the door.

"Oi! Jean!" It was Pete. They'd graduated together.

She waved at him and kept walking, hoping to leave it at that.

"Where you going? The night is young!"

"Home. I want to be--ready for work in the morning." It was hard to lie to him. Hard not to scream out about her violation. She must have given him quite a stern look.

"Alright. Walk you home?"

This time the look was enough to shut him down. She shouldered through the door, aching and disoriented, wondering whether the morning would find her any clearer-headed about this.

***

Four days later he did it again.

It was just like the first time, except that she was no longer confused. She knew exactly what she was there for, what he wanted. There were few words.

When she stood up she once again spat in his bin. Couldn't help herself, couldn't stop that gesture of hate.

He stirred uneasily. 

"Have a restful night, sir," she said, leveling a hard glance at his eyes. He grimaced and looked away.

***

It happened again and again. For weeks. She began to dread seeing the Superintendent in the hall, to dread the mention of his name. She'd be out on the streets, as traffic warden or making a call with one of the other Constables, and she could feel like there was air to breathe, but as soon as she entered the building she felt herself closing up. A few of her fellows noticed; Pete teased her about how quiet she was, and about the amount of whisky she'd drink, down the pub.

Sometimes he sounded more serious. "Seriously, Jean, you're scaring me." He had a comfortable, homely face, and he usually made her feel relaxed around his gentle normality. But the concerned look made her nervous.

She gave him a look, the kind of glare she was perfecting. The green-eyed "stay the bloody hell out of my business" look she'd been practicing in the bathroom mirror.

"You're so grim. It's not like you."

"I'm just focused."

"Dunno why."

She gave him her other look, the "you're so young and you don't understand" eyeroll of pity, and then they both laughed and he bought her another pint.

But it was eating at her, all the time. The fear and anticipation and fury. She felt maddeningly trapped. She began to daydream about ways to sabotage Thomas, to get him injured or sick in order to keep him away from work. She imagined confronting him and wondered what she could possibly say to make an impression.

The problem was, this was the way the world worked. 

***

One Saturday she woke to a hard beam of sunlight slanting into her eyes. She rolled over and contemplated the dusty motes in the light. It was warm and fresh but it did nothing for her mood, for the black despair that seemed to cling to every moment. There seemed to be no good course of action. There must be an answer for the sick feeling in her stomach, something other than submitting over and over again. Thoughts flitted through her mind; revenge, betrayal, dismissal, resignation. Nothing seemed worth the effort.

She'd spent seconds and minutes and hours and lifetimes contemplating her options, it seemed. Where were the answers? She wouldn't leave the force. She had friends, and she loved the work. She wanted the work. Surely there was something good she could get out of this? Getting something out of it. Making some sort of bargain out of the mess. Maybe that was the only way out. Thomas was going to get his no matter what she had to say, but was there any possibility that she could negotiate for some dregs of satisfaction?

She roused at last, and got dressed, cracked some eggs in a pan and brewed some tea. After she had finished breakfast and put the dishes in the sink she walked into the hall and stood next to the telephone for long minutes before picking up the receiver and dialing a number in a rush.

"I did it, all right?" she said before he could speak. She sounded muffled to her own ears. Her skin was burning. There was silence on the other end of the line so she wondered if she had called the right number, but then she heard his distinctive throat-clearing. "I did what you wanted, a-and I'll do it again. But I want something in return. I want to be a WDC. You can do that, right?"

He grumbled, made a muffled noise. "Jean..."

"Hunt," she corrected, angrier by the moment. "I'll do what you want, but I'm PC Hunt, and you gotta give me something in return."

She imagined he looked petulant like a spoiled child, like her younger brother Stu when he didn't get the biggest piece of cake. "You don't get to tell me what to do!" Yes, that sounded like Stu, all right.

She felt the words swelling inside her and let them out in a rush. "You think there's no one I could complain to? Ha bloody ha. But I'm not complaining, am I? I just want something back. Something you can do for me. You could do it bleeding tomorrow if you'd a mind to." She didn't know where this was coming from, the certainty and the anger, but it carried her along like a wave. "You can give me a promotion."

I can't do that!" There was a bitter note to his voice. "There are procedures! You haven't been on the job long enough, it--"

"I don't care how it looks," she growled.

"You bloody well ought to, girl!"

She snorted. "Care about how it looks? I'm past that." He knew it, too. She'd done him, she'd taken what he'd offered, and now for all that he had this to hold over her, she had it over him, too. 

There was a pregnant pause as she stood there with her hand on the door, waiting. Waiting and imagining his darting eyes, his nervous fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. She knew she'd pay a price for this, but lord, this was the price she was already paying for having this job, for being female, for wanting things.

"We'll talk," he said softly.

It was an admission of guilt, as much as anything. It was a chink in his armor.

"Yes we will." She was aware of the firm set of her own mouth. "Bloody well right we will."

"You're not going to let go of this, are you?"

"No, sir." It was an automatic response.

"Like a sodding lioness," he muttered to himself. "I'll--see what I can do. I'm making no promises."

She mulled that over, decided it was well enough. "All right then. Sir."

The click of the receiver seemed to release some nebulous substance, something lighter than air that filled her lungs, made her light on her feet. She breathed deeply. "The lioness of Manchester." It seemed an apt description. The lionesses caught the prey, right? They did all the hunting. She'd do her own work, right enough. She'd earn what she was wresting from the Superintendent.

She'd be fine.


End file.
